


Ask Me No Questions and I'll Tell You No Lies

by exbex



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 20:04:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6391387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he had thought he understood survival instinct before, he was wrong. Something unravels inside of him at the realization that, at some point, you have to forget all the rules of good, decent, behavior. And isn’t that the real tragedy? Not that people hurt you, but that they actually change the kind of person you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask Me No Questions and I'll Tell You No Lies

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags one more time. 
> 
>  
> 
> Check Please! belongs to Ngozi Ukazu.

Eric almost doesn’t go to the police with it, because he’s not sure there’s anything to report. He doesn’t know the guy’s name, but he’s pretty sure the guy isn’t a Samwell student; he’s too old, and the club is just a bit too far off campus. Ultimately, he goes, because there isn’t anything to report, but there almost was. If Eric hadn’t been sober, if the guy had been less drunk, if Eric hadn’t been able to fight him off, then there’d have been more than just the fingerprints on his upper arms, more than the memory of the slurred “cocksucker” in his ear, of the way the heavy body pressed him against the wall in a clear indication of what was about to happen.

Ultimately, Eric goes to the police, even though he has little description to go on, because the next person the guy goes after might not be so lucky.

The police don’t seem any more optimistic than he feels, but it’s a weight off of his conscience.

**

The lies start two days after “the incident”, one day after he reports it to the police.

“No, I slept fine. Just a little stressed out.”

I know I haven’t texted you back. I’m just busy. 

“Sorry Coach. No, just a little stressed out with school. Yeah, I’ll be ready for the game.”

“No, you just startled me. I didn’t see you there.”

“I know, I’m just busy. I have a lot of homework.” This last one almost breaks him, because Lardo is shrewd. She presses her lips together, and looks as if she’s going to ask him again, and Eric doesn’t know if the way his chest tightens means he’s afraid she will or if he hopes she will. Ultimately, she seems to change her mind. “Okay, Bitty. But you know you can talk to me about anything, right?”

“Of course, Lardo.” And even that is a lie.

**

The game Friday is a difficult one from the start. Everything threatens to unravel for Eric when he gets checked, hard. As far as checks go, it’s not that bad; he doesn’t go flying through the air, at least. But even that’s a lie. It’s worse, because he’s pressed up against the boards, he can’t move, and the smell of alcohol is strong even though Eric knows he’s imagining it.

Even his own body betrays him, because he’s about to crumple to the ice in a quivering panic, but this is a player with whom he’s had other run-ins, and the guy isn’t exactly a good sport. He says something, and it could be any of a number of stupid words that he likes to throw at his opponents, but Eric hears “cocksucker.”

Eric knows all about the fight or flight response. Once upon a time, being that avoidance and escape routes were his preferred methods of dealing with stressful situations, he would have categorized himself as a definite fleer. And if his reactions to getting checked were anything to go by, he liked the play dead strategy. 

But suddenly, it’s not a hockey game anymore. It’s not trying to keep his head down to avoid being too different, it’s not knowing where to walk to avoid the bullies, it’s not repeating and rehearsing his coming out speech. 

If he had thought he understood survival instinct before, he was wrong. Something unravels inside of him at the realization that, at some point, you have to forget all the rules of good, decent, behavior. And isn’t that the real tragedy? Not that people hurt you, but that they actually change the kind of person you are.

It’s the kind of fighting that even the NHL doesn’t allow to slide. Eric has the vague notion that he’s not just using fists, but his stick, and he barely has the presence of mind to acknowledge that Ransom and Holster are pulling him off, calling his name, their faces showing a mix of bewilderment and worry and shock.

**

Apologies, reassurances, and gratitude. They’re all beyond him at the moment, which is why he got up at some ungodly hour to go do laundry and why he’s returned to hiding out in his room, folding and re-folding. He ought to be baking as a peace offering, especially for Holster and Ransom, who probably kept him from being suspended. But he can’t stand the worried eyes, and, most of all, the questions, the prying for answers. He’s running out of lies.

“Eric.” It’s the voice that would normally have him turning around to run straight into its owner’s arms, but Eric just feels a cold dread run through him. He turns slowly, and the sight of Jack’s worried face renders him speechless.

“Lardo called me. Eric, what’s going on?”

The plaintive tone in the question causes the tears to spring to his eyes, and Eric has to turn away.

“Eric, please.” Jack has closed the bedroom door and the distance between them, his hand curling around Eric’s upper arm, fingertips closing nearly exactly over the now faded marks.

“Don’t touch me!” Eric jerks away from the touch that he normally craves, and everything is suddenly too much. He can barely see through his tears, has to feel his way to sit on the bed. Grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes can’t stop the tears, or the quiet sobs from wracking his body.

“Eric,” and it’s the voice that Jack uses when he’s trying to calm himself down. Eric recognizes it even though they’ve only been dating a few months. Eric forces himself to look at Jack, who has his fists clenched and this look that says that he’s dreading what he’s about to hear, because he thinks he’s already figured out what is going on.

Eric swallows, hard, and he gestures toward the only chair in the room. Jack obeys, maintaining eye contact but flexing his fingers before pressing them firmly on the tops of his thighs, as if he’s going to have to hold himself in place.

“Dani and Kayla wanted to go to The Cube on Saturday night. We got in with these fake ids, but we didn’t have drinks, because we didn’t want to push our luck. After a while we were fixin’ to leave, and we decided to use the washrooms before heading back to campus.” He pauses, breathing deeply, forcing himself to look at Jack and not at the floor.

“It’s okay if you….” Jack looks as if the effort to give Eric the choice is killing him, but it gives Eric the resolve to keep going.

“It’s alright. I was drying my hands and this guy, really drunk, came up behind me, grabbed my arms, shoved me into the wall, called me a cocksucker. I just kind of panicked. He was too drunk, I guess, because I got him off of me and ran outside.” He closes his eyes again, breathes deeply, and continues. “The rest of it is a little fuzzy, I was crying and we were in the car before I could explain. We went to the police and I filled out a report. I haven’t told anyone else. Until now, anyway.” Eric feels as if he’s been split in two; his voice sounding like a stranger’s reading a weather forecast or something equally mundane. And there are pieces of memory missing, as if the incident crashed into him and debris has been scattered. It’s only now that he notices that Jack has been inhaling and exhaling slowly.

“Is it okay if I sit next to you?”

Eric nods, and Jack kicks off his shoes to pad over to the bed, leaving just a few inches between them. He rests one arm around Eric’s shoulders and it’s tentative; an invitation and reassurance as much as it’s asking permission. Eric shifts to settle into Jack’s side, and they’re both moving into a more comfortable position so that they’re resting rather than perching, and the normalcy of it lifts a weight off of Eric’s chest.

“My therapist can recommend someone….” Jack’s voice is hesitant, and Eric can picture an expression on his face, a look of worry, as if Jack is trying to figure out how to stand between Eric and the rest of the world bearing down on him, but Jack knows all too well that, at some point, your own worst enemy is yourself. Eric doesn’t turn to look at him, but reaches for his hand, feels familiar fingers wrapping around his, and a squeeze that is meant for reassurance, probably for both of them.

“Jack, tonight….I don’t know what. I could have really hurt him. And I….I feel ashamed, not just of that, but of what happened at the club, and I, I don’t even want the police to find him, even though…and that’s so bad, because…” Eric hears his own voice, can see the last few days of his life, but it feels like he’s looking at a stranger’s life. Again there’s the sense of having been split into two, as if the incident has created some kind of alternative reality that he’s pulled into at random intervals. He wants to shut the door on it forever, let it recede from his memory.

“It’s alright. They’re not good or bad, they’re just feelings. You just have to breathe through them. Don’t ignore them.” The words sound like Jack has been saying them for a long time, but not as if they’re rehearsed, more as if they’re molded to him like a broken-in pair of hockey skates.

“Jack, I have to apologize to, like, everyone. I have to figure out how to tell my parents without making them worry like crazy, I have so much to explain…”

“Shh…it’ll all still be there tomorrow.” Jacks slowly slides his arms around Eric, shifts them so that they’re laying down, and it’s as if they’re slipping between spaces, like a crowd of eyes has disappeared and they’re on the ice at Faber, but the game is done, the teams are gone, and it’s just he and Jack, and Jack is teaching him how to skate through a check.

“Jack, how are we supposed to keep us a secret after tonight? You must have been seen by half the team, what about the NHL…”

“There are more important things than hockey.”

The silence is long, and surprisingly comfortable. It would be easy to let the steady drum of Jack’s heartbeat underscore his words, but reality seems so tenuous right now. “You shouldn’t have to…upend your entire life to come rescue me.”

“I’m just returning the favor.” And Jack rubs slow circles between Eric’s shoulder blades, as if to punctuate the statement, as if to knead it into Eric’s muscles and make it stay there. “Just don’t follow my example and go thinking that you don’t deserve it, okay?” Jack’s voice sounds small, in a way it almost never does.

“Okay Jack, I promise.” And on the last exhale it feels as if something is losing its hold on him.


End file.
